Wanderer: The Moondark Saga, Books 4-6 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Don McQuinn

  Wippard scoffed. “Liar. Katallon needs more warriors, more food and water. He needs more knowledge of the mountain passes and the lands beyond, he needs…”

  Katallon glared, and Wippard abandoned his recital of Windband’s weaknesses. Lamely, he continued, “We need the guidance of Moondance. Only through belief can we fulfill our lives and souls.”

  Jones bent forward. “Was your father chief of your tribe, Katallon?”

  Startled, Katallon stared, then burst out laughing. “You mean to serve a high-born leader? Not here, Priest. I never knew a father. My mother died of my birth. I was raised by her sister, and she made me her slave. I learned to take what I want in order to live. I’m no chosen leader. I lead because I choose.”

  Jones knitted his fingers together, placed the hands on top of the snakes. Their predatory single mindedness seeped through the cloth and into him. “You came into the world naked and alone. You rose above those who appeared dominant. So I say to you, do not scorn me because I appear weak and useless. You can kill me as easily as your aunt could have killed you. My loss to you would be great.”

  Katallon turned away, clapping his hands. A woman hurried into the room. She was dressed in a tan skirt that swept the ground, with a darker blouse. She stopped just inside the slit in the tent. Katallon said, “Meat. Beer. Bread.” At a flick of his hand, she was gone.

  Facing Jones again, Katallon studied him, unspeaking. For some while, Jones stared back, then looked away. Wippard smiled, enjoying Jones’ discomfiture. Jones fixed his eyes on a point far beyond the tent roof, concentrating on what he must do that night.

  The more he envisioned it, the more assured he became.

  The food came on a table borne by two slaves. Each had a thin steel band around his neck and both wrists. Loops riveted to the bands obviously served as tethering rings. The men were naked to the waist. When they turned to leave, Jones saw one’s back was disfigured by the lumpy, slick welts of flogging scars. Jones’ hand stole to his turban. He envisioned his own offended, humiliated flesh. Sylah’s patrician features swam in his mind’s eye.

  Katallon was watching; he nodded at the departing slave. “Discipline’s strict in Windband,” he said then picked up the carving knife and sawed off a slab of meat. It ran red with rich juices and its heady redolence struck Jones so hard it made him unsteady. He snatched up the knife before Wippard could reach for it, cut a slice, then placed it on bread as he saw Katallon do. The beer was in individual tankards, the foam on top like tan cream. Jones forgot all his problems for the moment.

  Katallon was draining the last of his drink when a bell chimed from the first room. Katallon responded with a shouted order. A guard stepped in. He said, “Part of the ambushers—about twenty, who caught horses—have returned. The War Chief comes.”

  Katallon clapped once more to have the meal cleared. After a quick glance at Jones and Wippard, he settled back in his chair, waiting.

  The man who stormed into the inner room looked less like a War Chief than anyone Jones could imagine. He was considerably under five and a half feet tall, and nearly as big around. The small head sat on the massive, stumpy body like a cruel joke. Not even the warning inherent in the numerous scars crisscrossing its shaved expanse, or the menace in the wild, remaining eye, could detract from the illusion that the entire creature was made of leftover parts. Then Jones’ more-analytical view took hold. The man’s arms, though short, were hugely muscled. Thighs like kegs led to bulging calves, all supported on small feet and comparatively delicate ankles. Sweat stains on his leather shirt showed where body armor had rested. Jones imagined him tearing it off, throwing it aside on his way to this meeting.

  The one eye searched, settled on Jones. Without warning, the chief drew his fighting axe from its scabbard and attacked.

  Jones’ stunned brain comprehended the curved blade as descending on him with the syrupy slowness of something from a mad dream.

  Overeager, the chief stumbled. A look of exasperated disbelief flashed across the coarse features. He struggled for balance, tried to adjust the suddenly awry aim of the axe. The effort spun him further off center. He staggered, twisted, ended up directly facing Jones. His weapon swished past Jones’ ear, struck the heavy back support post of the chair.

  The sound was melodic, the clean thud of wood, and then the faint ring of metal, like a distant bell. Even as Jones felt his bladder empty, he registered the tones, knowing they’d be with him as long as he lived, as would the stinking panting of the chief, the red, wet open mouth as he strained to free the blade.

  Jones looked down to discover the snakes. He didn’t remember reaching for them, yet they were out, his hands grasping their middles.

  The chief saw them an instant later. His eye bulged. When he screamed, saliva splattered Jones.

  The furiously rattling snakes struck him simultaneously. Then again. And again. They struck his straining, ridged throat, his face, his chest. Poison pumped into him. One struck his arm at the inside of the elbow as he belatedly threw himself backward, releasing the axe handle.

  On the pounded earth floor of the tent, the chief rolled and screamed, kicking, flailing his arms as if still attacked. Katallon and Wippard were stupefied, as were the guards who tumbled into the room, the late arrivals jarring aside the earlier ones, all bunching into knots of disbelief at the entryways.

  The chief rolled to a sitting position. A waxy, blue-white sheen palled his flesh. Eerily, the fading, dying eye sought Jones, fixed on his face yet again. Unable to move, Jones sat and stared back, the squirming, rattling snakes coiled round his extended arms.

  The chief’s focus changed. He strained toward Jones. From that close, it was clear he was trying to regain his axe. Behind his back, Katallon and Wippard watched, transfixed.

  Recovering quickly, Jones crammed the snakes back into their sacks. With his right hand, he lifted the moon disk on its chain and held it out toward the chief. Rolling the words from deep in his chest, he said, “I forgive. Like me, you shall rise from the dead when my time next comes, and you shall join me in life eternal beside my mother the moon.”

  Mouth working, features contorted, the chief strained toward Jones, reached for his weapon. The hand pawed at Jones’ knee. Jones bent forward, wedged his hand under the man’s chin. He was gratefully surprised to discover just how much strength and coordination the man had lost; it was like restraining a heavy infant. Jones said, “Come to me, my son. I comfort. Believe in me, and go, prepared to rise again at my call. I, who am Moonpriest, say this to you.”

  The chief dropped in convulsions at his feet. They all watched as he shook the last of his life away.

  Jones leaned back in his seat. He ignored the clamminess where he’d voided himself. Maintaining the projection quality of his speech, he directed it at Katallon. “The moon dies to be reborn. Thus was I. The snake sheds its skin and lives renewed. Thus was I. The snake is but a symbol, however. There is more within me, a power you cannot imagine. It makes the venom of snakes as dew on the grass. I offer it to you. Harm my people, harm me, and you lose that power forever. In its place, you will bear the curse of Moonpriest to your burning, down to the seventh generation.”

  Slowly, deliberately, he turned his gaze on Wippard. “You would test Moonpriest, in your arrogance. So you shall. So you shall.”

  Chapter 36

  “Hurry, you fools,” Jones snapped.

  Fox blanched. It troubled him deeply to see Jones so nervous. He’d never been like this since his rebirth. Unceasingly, he paced the ground inside the roped-off area where the confrontation with Wippard was to take place.

  The bodies of the dead Windband warriors rested on top of their pyre, at the back of the square. A large chair outside the rope faced the device Fox and his men worked on. Fourteen smaller chairs flanked it. Katallon, Wippard, and the other dignitaries from the tribes of Windband would watch the test from there.

  The huge crowd already waiting outside the rope barrier added to Fox�
�s discomfort. The only other time he’d seen that many people gathered was at what his people simply called the Battle. That was when Gan Moondark crushed Ola.

  Adding to the problems, Jones’ strange device had only been seen by himself, the smith, and the woodworker. Construction was slow, clumsy. The crowd saw the confusion. They jeered raucously and speculated on the death Wippard would order for the entire group, once he’d exposed the fraudulent priest.

  Nevertheless, the work went on.

  The base of the device was a squat knee-high table. Down the length of the tabletop, off center toward the back, ran a large wooden frame. It held a thin sheet of wildcow leather a full five feet square. Both sides were illustrated with four vertical columns of seven squares. On the far left the squares were each bisected by a diagonal line ranging from the lower left corner to the upper right. The top, or dominant, triangle was painted white, the lower triangle black. In the next column the squares were all white, separated by black lines. The third section was an inverted version of the first; the diagonal ran from top left to lower right, and black was dominant over white. The final column was all black squares, divided by white lines.

  Above each painted column was a metal representation of the proper moon phase. They were fashioned with metal tails, which fit into holes in the frame.

  While they attached the frame to its end braces, Fox noted that the leather was impregnated with beeswax. It reminded him of the way his people boiled leather in oil to create the shell of the body armor they called a barmal.

  There was something vaguely disturbing about the odd looking creation taking shape. Fox easily recognized the symbolism of twenty-eight squares arranged to illustrate the lunar cycle. The moon disks his men were presently unpacking clearly had religious significance. But what was all the talk of power, of a gift from the moon mother? Fox caught himself chewing the inside of his lip. It infuriated him to realize he was succumbing to nervousness, and his anger turned to Jones.

  Moonpriest. He’d promised many people many things.

  Fox looked to the east. Peaks in silhouette presaged moonrise. Moonpriest’s power revealed? Or a cold, pitiless light to guide them all to the Land Beyond?

  The russet middle of each moon disk was about three feet across, made of sturdy ceramic material. There was a large hole in each center and deep indentations at the outer rim. Then there were the long, slightly ridged pieces of highly polished copper, tapered from a blunt, fat end to a small, rounded end. Jones supervised as the warriors fit the metal pieces into the outer indentations, where they were held in place by copper pins inserted into holes provided for the purpose. Extending about six inches past the rim, the fatter ends of the metal pieces created the effect of a red-rayed harvest moon.

  A disk went on each side of the waxed screen. Two warriors fitted the disk center holes over axles at the apex of triangular stanchions. Locked in place, the disks rotated smoothly. The waxed hide between them completely hid one disk from the other, and the disks almost totally obscured the paintings.

  Fox could see no sense to it.

  A small steel rod attached to each stanchion. There was a small brush of fine copper wires at the farthest ends of the rod, where they could whisk the copper rays. Fox noted that the brushes on the front disk touched upper left and lower right. The brushes on the back touched opposite top and bottom points.

  Why?

  Each axle had a small pulley on it with a looped leather belt that ran to larger wheels a few feet away. The big wheels were fixed to a thick beam that ran under the table. The wheels had handles for turning. There was a seat at each end of the beam. Obviously, men were expected to sit in the seats and turn the wheels, which then turned the smaller one and rotated the disk.

  Again, why?

  Continuing activity drew Fox’s attention. Two large wooden posts were sunk through holes cut in the wood of the table top and wedged securely in place. The poles extended about an inch below the table top and flanked the framed leather barrier. The woodworker had endowed them with beautifully carved rattlesnakes. A pair entwined each post in high relief. One of them reached the top, just short of the decorative knob there, its head turned to glare balefully out at any spectators. The second stopped halfway up, holding a thing in its mouth that Fox could only call a pair of copper combs. The teeth of each comb faced the teeth of the other, parallel to the ground. They were so close to touching the metal rays of the moon disks that Fox stood on tiptoe to look directly down and assure there was no contact.

  A wedge between beam and table tightened the belt to the smaller wheel.

  Jones ordered the system tested.

  Both disks spun properly between the combs. The little copper brushes made a soft whisper. An ominous mumble came up from the axles.

  There was another noise. A sinister, crackling hiss. Jones saw Fox’s troubled puzzlement and smiled. The expression bothered Fox as much as the strange sound.

  Jones himself attached a copper rod to each pair of combs with pins. The rod fed horizontally into a hole bored in each post. A few inches below that a short chain of copper links exited a similar hole. Jones clipped a length of identical chain to the post chain. It reached down to coil on the tabletop.

  Warriors unwrapped an awkward, heavy construction. Fox grimaced at the sight of it, finally understanding why Jones had stripped the camp of every scrap of copper they owned. This last piece looked like stair steps, but only as thick as a knife blade, and unbraced, that was impossible. It was far too clumsy for a shield.

  The crowd jeered. Fox’s face warmed.

  Jones laid down several thicknesses of waxed hide on top of the small table. The top lip of the copper thing, reaching from the front edge of the altar almost to the moon disk, rested on the hides. Long wooden pins passed through holes in both copper and leather padding, fastening all to the tabletop. The center portion hung down to the ground. The lower piece extended out as a kneeling platform, resting on the earth.

  Jones attached a copper wire to the right hand pair of combs. There was a hole in the corner of the metal slab on the table, and the wire was strung to that, looped through it several times, then tied off.

  Once more Jones signaled the wheels to be turned. The rumble seemed even throatier to Fox. The wet sizzle sounded again.

  He was surprised to discover he was sweating. Heavily. It was reasonable to be confused by something as secret and new as Jones’ device. Why did it make him…? He surrendered to the word: Afraid.

  One of the warriors spoke to Jones. “Moonpriest, we’re ready.”

  Fox jerked himself away from the lure of the thing in front of him. Men pulled back the hide covering the last packhorse’s burden. They exposed the willow basket Otter Five’s wife used to carry the jar that was her proudest possession. As one warrior lifted the jar free, another took two highly polished copper pots from a basket on the opposite side of the horse. Jones had the larger metal pot placed on the tabletop’s copperplate. The porcelain jar went into that, and the smaller copper pot inside that. The pots were about a finger’s length shorter than the jar, and they fit so close, inner and outer, they literally sleeved it.

  Fox could only shake his head at what the smith had accomplished. The pots were seamlessly joined, the bottoms perfectly flat.

  An apron of white cloth, tacked to the edge of the tabletop, flanked the copper steps. It draped to the earth. Fox admired that touch; it gave the entire object a more solid, stable appearance.

  From the piled baggage, Jones produced a thin copper club with a large flat disk at one end. Moving closer, Fox saw it was actually a cast figurine. An elongated man stood on the circular base, arms pressed to his sides, legs rigid, fists clenched. The body’s posture suggested agony.

  The face defined it.

  White quartz eyes bulged horribly, lines made canyons across the features. The mouth gaped wide, baring bone teeth in an unending, unheard scream.

  The figurine stood in the inner copper pot. The tortured
head and hunched shoulders extended above the top.

  War horns groaned. The first silvered edge of the moon crested the distant peaks. Katallon and his party made their way to the chairs.

  In the pregnant hush, Fox heard the silence of the crouched leopard. He knew that this was the highest moment he would ever see. This was not face to face with an enemy, steel against steel. This was looking into the eyes of fate.

  Of faith.

  * * *

  Jones watched Katallon’s arrival with euphoric confidence. Never had he felt more alive, more aware of every nuance of his body. It was as if each limb, each joint, each hair, sang of accomplishment.

  He was destined to bring truth to these people. And then more. Conquests of love. All people, captured in righteousness.

  Wippard addressed the crowd. “Katallon gives this blasphemous priest opportunity to defend himself. You will choose his death. You will be given his followers, as partial compensation for the deaths of our warriors. When we destroy his tribe, the survivors will be shared among you.”

  “Kill him now! He killed our War Chief!” The demand lifted from far back in the crowd. More voices agreed.

  Katallon frowned, staring straight ahead. Jones raised his arms for silence. The gesture only aggravated the situation.

  Katallon stood. Windband held its collective breath. Katallon said, “Today my War Chief shamed me in my tent. He bared his weapon. He attacked this one. No man has ever stood against the War Chief. This one killed him.”

  Sullen fury moaned like a storm wind. Katallon needed only a gesture to silence it. “Most of you have heard that spirit animals killed the War Chief. This is true. Rattlesnakes. At this one’s wish, they struck. He has claimed even greater powers. He offers them to Windband. We test.”

  With Katallon reseated, Wippard signaled one of his priests forward. The man proved to be a skilled juggler. He kept four balls in the air while performing acrobatic contortions. Jones noted wryly that the balls were painted to suggest phases of the moon. Then the priest made a large silver moon disk disappear and reappear with appropriate religious commentary aimed at Jones, who disdained the entire performance.